by Jeff Vrolyks
She wasn’t amused this time. She opened her purse and found a pen and paper and jotted her info down and handed it to him.
Come home with me. Heather D.
“Heather D,” he mused, folding the paper. “Heather D, come home with me. Hmm.” He looked up at her blank face. “Would make a fine lyric.”
“So what do you think?”
“What’s the D stand for.”
“Delilastyzen.”
“Wow, that’s a tough one.”
“It’s no VonFuren, but then again I’m not from around here.” She strutted to him and took his hands in hers. “Not from this country.” She pressed up against him and stared down at his mouth. “Not from this…” She brought his hands around her and placed them on the fullness of her ass and kissed him. He kissed her back. She pulled away and whispered, “Place.”
Kloss cleared his throat. “You’re definitely not like any woman from anywhere I’ve been.” Kloss moved in to kiss her again: she refused him.
“Are you going to make your phone call? Or…” She ran her hand down his chest and said, “Would you prefer to take me up on my offer?” She smiled devilishly as she took a few backward steps, then turned and paced to a nearby Mercedes, swaying her hips like she knew what she was doing.
“Don’t you need to call your brother back?”
“To hell with him,” she said from afar. “He can wait, your sister can wait, let’s go have some fun.”
Back at his Hummer he holstered the gasoline pump and got the hell out of Dodge. The sun was below the horizon, though it wasn’t full dark yet; he turned the headlights on anyway. She was in her car and pulling up to the stop sign, waited for him before pulling onto the main road. He sidled her and gestured her window: she lowered it. “I’m heading south, to Vacaville. I don’t want to go too far out of the way. Where do you live?” He wondered if he meant it. He would likely drive to Holland if that’s where she was headed.
“I live a mile down the road. Follow me.”
As Kloss drove away from the freeway, on a one-lane road leading seemingly to fucking nowhere, he began second guessing this act of mischief. This wasn’t like him at all, and he worried for his sister. After three miles of driving he wondered if Heather had lied to him.
“Are you kidding me? Holly could be in trouble and you’re chasing a girl? One mile down the road, huh? It’s been three. Three! She lied to me.” He pounded the steering wheel. His mind drifted back to her sexy figure and full lips, and remembered why he was following her. He reflected back to their conversation. She had said VonFuren. He never introduced himself, yet she knew his last name. “She’s probably a band-aid or a groupie. Fucking great.”
Four miles from the gas station later, he was ready to turn around. He wondered why she would use a payphone when she lived just down the road. If she could afford a Mercedes she could afford a phone. The situation stank. He applied the brakes and swerved to the shoulder to prepare for a U-turn when a tire blew out. He parked along the shoulder; she did the same. He got out of the truck and examined the blown tire. Heather approached him.
“My house is just down the road,” she said, “quarter mile at the most. I’ll give you a ride and you can call a truck from there.”
“Heather, I don’t understand. Why did you use a payphone when you live so close by? Are you… a fan?”
“No, I’m not a fan.” She led him by the hand toward her car. “My brother is a federal agent, working on a project that he is forbidden to talk about. We only talk to each other over payphones.” They got in her car and resumed driving. “You’re thinking too much, relax. It’s not a big deal. Thinking isn’t as pleasurable as feeling, wouldn’t you agree? In ten minutes you won’t remember my name. In twenty minutes you won’t remember your name. In an hour you’ll forget how to walk. But you will never forget one thing, sexy, and that’s how you’ll feel inside me.”
“Maybe I should change the tire myself. I haven’t changed a tire in years.”
“Hun, you’ll get filthy and you are far too good looking to get all dirtied up.” He stared at her dubiously. “A quarter mile at the most,” she repeated.
Together they pulled into the driveway of a house hedged with dense trees and bushes; it was secluded. It was hard to see the particulars of the place, being as dark as it was, but there was no denying that it was a shack. Did it matter? He wasn’t going to her place to check out the architecture. Perhaps her body’s architecture. Nevertheless, it nagged at him. She owns a nice Mercedes but lives in this decrepitude? Strange priorities. He didn’t feel right about her or the situation, but as soon as he began building a case for blowing her off, she found ways to draw him back in.
Inside the small house was worse than the outside. Fast-food wrappers on every surface, coke cans and yogurt cups on matted-down shag carpet, sheets hung over the windows, dust shrouded the place. A solitary lamp kept the tiny house from being pitch black.
“Can I get you a beer?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Where’s your phone at? I’m going to call a tow truck.”
“It’s in the bedroom, follow me.”
Clothes were strewn about the floor, half were men’s. Pictures hung on the walls, an older couple in most of them. Surprisingly the bed was made, but not for long.
“I don’t see the phone,” he said.
“You’re right. Where is that damned thing?” She stepped into him and grabbed a hold of him through his jeans.
“Wait. One second.” She skillfully aroused him, kissing his neck and breathing in his ear. “I need… to call…” He couldn’t ignore the increasing pleasure anymore, and succumbed to her exploits.
For the next hour (he judged) Kloss was unable to keep his attention anywhere but on Heather. She was an anomaly in pleasures of the flesh. There came a point when he had no energy left to continue. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling in a numbed haze, breathing deeply.
“That was incredible, Kloss.” She wasn’t winded whatsoever and somehow that didn’t surprise him.
“It was.” He noticed a digital clock on the floor: it read 2:07 A.M. Had it been four hours? Five hours? Impossible. “What time is it? That clock is wrong.”
“I don’t know,” she said disinterested. She tried her hand at arousing him again.
He brushed her away. “No, please… no more. I’ll have a heart attack.”
She rolled out the bed and said, “Wait right there, I have something for you,” and walked out of the room naked.
“Where’s the phone?” he said after her. “Heather?” He heard a door open at the back of the house. She’s leaving the house naked? Psycho!
He suddenly hated himself for getting rid of his mobile phone. He swore them off after owning one for a short while (not short enough, he had thought). The phone rang constantly. People pestered him over non-urgent things, trivial things. And if something was important, God forbid, he had half a dozen people calling to tell him about it. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Somehow his number leaked out—he suspected his guitarist Gerry. It wasn’t long before crazies called and marveled how they were speaking to the singer of VonFurenz. He changed his number. It wasn’t a week later that it started back up. He threw the phone at the wall after a stranger offered advice for his next album. Holly had her share of problems as well, but she was more level-headed and would turn the ringer off when she had enough. He never gave any thought to how it might help him in situations like these. Not that this situation could have been predicted; he could hardly believe this was happening. He would never make this mistake again. He’d get another mobile phone.
He didn’t realize how bad he had to piss until he stood up. Covered in sweat, he put his clothes back on and turned on the light. Where the hell was the phone? If he didn’t use the restroom soon, things would get messy.
“I’m going to use your restroom, all right?”
No response (no surprise). Before he closed the bathroom door he thought he heard a distant sc
ream. He stood motionless and listened to the silence, then took his much needed piss.
He searched every room. Not a phone in the house. Nor had Heather returned. He took a deep frustrated breath. The absolute lack of control in this situation was maddening. He opened the back door and saw nothing but the blackness of night. He stepped out and called Heather’s name. He was sure she walked out this door. Then he saw something on the ground near the tool shed. An axe. He chose to ignore the wet sheen like motor oil on several discolored blotches on the cement near the shed, and decided to get the hell out of this place.
The Mercedes was still there, Heather was not. He opened the car door and prayed for keys. No keys. He was stranded in the middle of nowhere. No cars passed by, no headlights as far as he could see in both directions. The gas station was at least four miles away and nobody would be there at this hour. He was reduced to asking the neighbors for their phone.
Kloss couldn’t recall a night ever being this dark. There were no street lights, only an occasional porch light. The closest neighbor was a hundred yards away and he walked it cursing Heather.
He knocked and waited, sensed being watched through the peephole. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I had a little car trouble. May I use your phone?” No response, hardly surprising. Most people, including himself, wouldn’t answer the door in the middle of the night for a complete stranger with, what sounded like, a bullshit story. He figured he would try one last thing.
“My name is Kloss VonFuren, singer of the band by the same name. If you know who they are…?” Nothing.
The next house was even farther away. He jogged. When he knocked, lights turned on all over the place.
“Who is it?”
“I’m sorry to bother you but I had a bit of car trouble and I was wondering if I could call Triple A with your phone. I’d greatly appreciate it. Please?”
A stretch of silence. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to say no. There have been some break-ins in the neighborhood. Not that I think you’re a thief, I just don’t want to risk it if you know what I mean.”
This was going to take forever just to find a person who trusted him. “My name is Kloss and I’m in the band VonFurenz. Maybe you know who that is…?” Expecting a rejection, he instead heard the tumblers fall in the lock and the door ripped opened.
“No shit! Meg, guess who’s at our door!”
Thank god, Kloss thought. Celebrity does have its advantages.
After a few minutes of idle conversation with the Rodgers, who seemed like a nice enough couple, he was on the phone. They estimated thirty minutes to arrive. Kloss chatted with the newlywed couple for twenty more minutes, and eventually signed a CD of theirs.
“I really appreciate this, Tim and Meg. I thought I was going to have to walk four miles to a payphone and then three miles back to my truck.
“It was our pleasure to have the singer of VonFurenz right here in our house,” Tim said. “We’ll never forget it, will we honey?”
Meg preened her hair coquettishly. “I’ll always remember your visit, Kloss.” Tim glared at Meg with one raised eyebrow.
“VonFurenz is going on tour in a couple weeks. It will be a month or so before we play at Arco Arena, but if you two would like to go I’ll leave backstage passes at Will Call for you two.” They were ecstatic. “Take care guys, and next time you see that Heather D chick down the street, tell her they make medicine for crazies like her.”
“Not sure I know a Heather. Which house?”
They stepped outside together.
“Can’t see it, it’s dark, but she’s two houses down.” Kloss pointed.
“That’s the Jillian’s house. There’s no Heather there. Just two sweet old people, Herb and Dolly.”
“You sure? The gray house with the red door? Black Mercedes in the driveway?”
“Uh, they don’t drive a Mercedes,” Tim said, “unless they keep it in the garage. People around here don’t drive nice cars like that.”
“Do you know a tall girl, auburn hair, gorgeous but psycho?”
“No, sorry.”
They exchanged goodbyes and Kloss embarked. A seemingly infinite stretch of asphalt stood between him and his invisible black Hummer. It was a night to jog. When the distant headlights of the tow truck pulled up behind his truck, he picked up the pace. Oak trees lined both sides of the street and obscured the moonlight, dim as it was. He imagined it would be a great location to film a slasher film. He imagined that if Freddy Krueger was real, he’d probably enjoy this street. He hoped his impetuous decision to not wear a condom wouldn’t come back to haunt him. He wondered what Ali and Holly were doing and why the phones were down. He worried that Gerry might go on another meth binge during their tour, and why hasn’t Holly found a replacement worth a shit yet? That aside, things were starting to look up. The short-lived nightmare and sexscapade were behind him now. Yes, the worst was finally behind him.
A black dog came from the shadows of a tree and spied Kloss.
“Hey, boy!”
Kloss slowed to a brisk walk and extended his hand to the dog. The dog approached fearlessly. Once he was within petting distance, the dismal moonlight found a little gap between the branches of an oak tree and punched through. The lone moonbeam let Kloss in on a little secret: it wasn’t a dog.
Chapter 17
The spine-tingling sound of Alison’s skull fracturing resonated even as Alison lay still on the white marble floor. Her periwinkle nightgown clung loosely to her lithe body, limbs akimbo. I expected Holly to come unhinged but she didn’t. Her consternation was perceivable only from the slight opening of her mouth and sharpening of eyes. I surmised Holly’s influx of emotion bottlenecked along the way and she was shocked. I was in full panic mode from the moment Ali initiated her finger-point to the window behind us. That she didn’t complete the gesture, that what she had seen was so horrific that her body thought it best to shut down, was not lost on me. My neck had never been stiffer than when I tried to look behind me. I stood and turned to face it, whatever it may be. Holly turned as well, mirroring my movement. She was otherwise catatonic.
The windowpane was painted thickly in a wicked shade of night; a stalker’s paradise out there. The brilliant luster on the night-backed pane made a fine mirror, with only a trifling quadrant available for our outward viewing. If someone or something was out there, it wasn’t wanting to be seen. Holly fixed on something beyond the window.
“What is it?” I asked.
Holly stepped around the bed, inched her way closer to the window, face inscrutable. I followed her, then saw what got her attention. It wasn’t in itself ill-natured or repulsive, though looks can be deceiving. It was exotic and out of place, which suggested it came purposefully. It stared back at us. Neither of us voiced the obvious question, What the hell is that? Its yellow eyes were inhuman.
“It’s gotta be thirty or forty feet away,” I judged. “Ali couldn’t have noticed it from the hall.”
“Maybe she saw something else,” she said solemnly.
The eyes were quarter-sized embers, glowing marbles reflecting the house’s holy light back at us. They bobbed slightly as if they floated on a churning sea of crude oil, growing almost imperceptibly, as one might expect when you’re being approached. Whom they were attached to was undeniably black. I was loath to consider it wasn’t alone.
“It’s moving toward us,” she whispered.
“We need to call nine-one-one for Alison. Do you own a gun?”
“No, no gun. There’s a phone in the kitchen and in the office.”
“Let’s go to the office.” I preferred the security of a room with a door.
We left the window hastily. Our purposeful pace ended at the doorway. The sight was a well-placed punch to the gut. She was the embodiment of beauty destroyed. Alison, so soft and delicate in her blue silk gown, lay lifeless on a wet red marble floor.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Look how much… there’s so much blood. Too much.�
��
I said it for a reason. To plant the seed of inevitability and soften the blow of death by spreading it out, narrow as it may be. The injury was far worse than I imagined. I tried to remain calm but who was I kidding? Having had years of practice, I function quite well during bouts of severe panic.
I stripped a pillowcase from Holly’s bed and returned to Ali, gingerly rotated her head to find the source of hemorrhaging. Holly winced and I gasped when the wound exposed. Holly reeled at the sight. I could almost hear her heart breaking.
“Oh my God,” she whimpered, on the cusp of a sob. The gash was long and wide, blood seeped from it. The floodgates of Holly’s emotion opened. Each whimper and every tear shed was a pinprick in my heart. She asked How? repeatedly. How such an injury came from this, I had no idea.
“We need to stop the bleeding immediately,” I said. “Grab a towel.”
She moved as fast as she could. To the best of my handicapped ability, I wrapped the folded pillowcase around her head and tied a firm knot. It soaked through. Judging by the size of the puddle, she was down a few pints of blood. The head-dressing slowed the bleeding dramatically, but her severe pallor, the shade of an unpainted porcelain doll, hinted at too little too late. She couldn’t survive this injury; any conclusion otherwise would be delusional.
My vision became blurry. A single sob worked its way past my resolve. With the towel Holly handed me, I prepared a dressing over the first, taut and effective. I checked her wrist for a pulse: weak but alive.
“Look,” she squeaked, and pointed to the low stand opposite the door. A sharp granite corner had several blonde hairs and a little piece of skin clinging to it. It was the answer to How?
Thud!
Reverberation followed the collision of something into the sliding glass door by the kitchen. I was impressed the glass held up to such a tremendous impact.
“I’m calling for help,” she said.
She stepped inside her room and snatched a little white purse. We hauled ass toward the office, leaving Alison behind. Silently I apologized and promised to return shortly. Down the western hallway and through the foyer, we reached the eastern hallway with the office being the first room on our right. It was modestly sized room. Several filing cabinets lined the wall to my right. A large oak desk was against the wall by the door. It was a clutter of sticky notes, rolodexes, a phone, and an oversized computer monitor. Around the monitor stood figurines of Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Eeyore, and Piglet, convening jovially despite our distress. Against the far wall (which constituted a small portion of the house’s façade) was the desk that Alison had conducted her Louisville provisions when I arrived. Two framed pictures acted as bookends to the monitor: a picture of Alison driving Holly’s mustang in a Best Friends Forever frame (suspiciously absent was Holly); the other picture in a pink heart-shaped frame had Alison embracing with one arm the vocalist of Stone Temple Pilots. Against the left wall stood a pair of wooden bookshelf units. In them were a series of three-ring binders and a few How To For Dummies books. Above and to the side of Alison’s desk was what aggravated my nerves: a window. The blinds were drawn. I considered lowering them, but that would only instill a false sense of security.
